When Snow Falls

by Brenda Novak

  And Mack was right. There were plenty of other women. So why hadn’t he listened to his instincts, which had told him all along that making a play for Cheyenne would be reaching too far above him? Until recently, she’d always treated him as if he was no one she’d ever consider.

  But now that he’d been with her, he couldn’t seem to settle for anyone else.

  * * *

  Cheyenne felt a measure of relief as Joe drove off. The Christmas spirit she’d been feeling had faded the instant she bumped into Dylan. For the rest of the evening, the look on his face had haunted her, making it impossible for her to enjoy herself and awkward when it came time to say good-night to Joe. He’d walked her to the door and leaned in as if he might kiss her, but she’d given him a fleeting smile along with her thanks and fled inside.

  Thank God he was gone. Now maybe she’d have a few minutes to try to sort out why she felt so sick inside. If Joe was really the better choice, why was her heart being so rebellious? Why, when he’d invited her over for Christmas dinner, had she told him she wasn’t sure she could make it?

  With a sigh, she dropped her purse on the kitchen table and sank into a chair. The house was dark and quiet. Presley didn’t usually go to bed so early. But Cheyenne figured she had to be sleeping—until she realized she hadn’t seen her sister’s Mustang in the drive. She’d been too preoccupied with her own problems for that detail to register as soon as it should have.

  A peek outside confirmed it. No Mustang.

  Had Presley gone? Why would she do such a thing after assuring Cheyenne that she’d be home to look after Anita?

  Afraid she’d done just that, and more than a little apprehensive about the reason, Cheyenne poked her head inside her sister’s room. “Presley?” she murmured, hoping to find her in bed, despite the missing car. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d left her car somewhere and hitched a ride home to avoid a DUI.

  There was no answer. Leaving the door open to use the light from the hall to see the shapes of furniture and other obstacles, Cheyenne waded through the clothes on the floor to the bed.

  “Presley?” She patted the blankets, searching for something warm and solid.

  The bed was empty. After flipping on the light, she saw her sister’s comforter balled up in the middle; there was no one inside it.

  Once again weaving through the mess on the floor, she hurried to check on their mother.

  Anita’s room was just as quiet, just as still. But it smelled terrible. Much worse than normal.

  A chill ran up Cheyenne’s spine when she called her mother’s name and got no response. Thanks to the powerful opiates she was being given to handle the pain, she often slept too deeply to answer. Cheyenne wasn’t sure why it disturbed her so much tonight except that…the smell wasn’t right.

  Holding her breath, she listened for the sound of Anita breathing.

  Silence…

  “Mom?” she whispered.

  Again, no answer.

  She stood in the dark for several long seconds, waiting, listening, gathering her nerve. Some small animal scampered over the roof—probably a squirrel or a raccoon—but she heard nothing other than that.

  Anita was dead. Cheyenne knew it before she moved any closer. She just couldn’t seem to figure out how to feel about it. Her mother’s passing wasn’t the immediate release she’d expected.

  The sick feeling that’d sat in the bottom of her stomach since she’d seen Dylan grew much worse, along with a general sense of revulsion. Where was Presley? Why hadn’t her sister called? Cheyenne had carried her cell phone all night, just in case.

  The answer became apparent when she turned on the light.

  * * *

  The voice that woke him was reedy.

  “What?” Dylan said into his phone. Impatient and unhappy about being awakened, he was letting it show, so it didn’t surprise him when the line went dead. Since that was what he’d intended, he told himself he didn’t care. He knew who’d just tried to reach him and he had absolutely no reason to call her back.

  Except…she hadn’t sounded like herself. Was something wrong?

  “Doesn’t matter. Not my problem,” he grumbled, and chucked the phone onto the floor.

  He lay there for several minutes, staring at the ceiling and refusing to call her back. Cheyenne had made her choice. She’d chosen Joe. Although what had happened between them had felt serious, special, she’d never taken it that way.

  But the memory of her voice got under his skin, made him wonder why she’d sounded so panicked, so flustered, so faint....

  With a curse, he got up and retrieved his cell. It didn’t matter how hard he fought the impulse. It wouldn’t go away.

  She’d better have a good reason for bugging him, he thought as he dialed. But if she did, he didn’t get to learn what it was. She didn’t answer. After several rings, his call transferred to voice mail.

  I’m sorry, I’m not available right now…

  What the hell was going on?

  He hung up, but when he tried to call her two more times without any luck, he couldn’t pass off what he’d heard as inconsequential. What if something terrible had happened? Angry and disappointed though he was, he knew her mother was dying of cancer. So he shook off the last vestiges of sleep, pulled on a pair of sweats, a heavy coat with no shirt and some tennis shoes and hurried out.

  Thanks to his motorcycle, he reached Cheyenne’s place in a matter of minutes.

  Her Oldsmobile sat in the drive, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d been out with Joe. Was she home? She had to be if she’d called him. But no one answered his knock. And when he went back to calling her cell, that didn’t do any good, either. Her voice mail picked up again and again.

  “Cheyenne?” He pounded on her door. “You in there? It’s Dylan. Open up.”

  Pressing his ear to the wood, he listened for sounds from inside but heard nothing.

  “Cheyenne? Where are you?” He might’ve called for Presley, too, but her car wasn’t in the drive. He guessed she was at work.

  After crossing to the living room window, he peered in—and was shocked to see Cheyenne. She was sitting at the kitchen table, holding her head in her hands.

  He banged on the window, but she didn’t move, didn’t turn, didn’t answer.

  Heart pounding, he jogged around the house. He knew the back door was flimsier than the front. It was locked, too, but he didn’t ask Cheyenne to open it. He kicked it in. Only then did she lift her head long enough for him to see the tears streaming down her face.

  * * *

  The hospice worker had told Cheyenne to contact Anita’s doctor when Anita died. Together they’d gone over the proper procedure. They’d even talked about how to determine whether or not she was really dead, as if someone had to be told that having no pulse meant her heart had quit pumping.

  But the reality wasn’t anything like what Cheyenne had expected. At this moment, the only person she felt safe reaching out to was Dylan. Maybe she’d been trying to convince herself that Joe was the more reliable man, but she hadn’t even considered calling him.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I—I shouldn’t have bothered you. I know what you must think of me after…after tonight. And it’s late. I’m sorry…”

  He took her chin, looked down into her face. “Shh… Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed. Remembering what she’d seen in her mother’s room nauseated her.

  “Did your mother die?” he asked gently.

  She nodded. Anita was gone, all right. Two days before Christmas. While all of Cheyenne’s friends were in the Caribbean or spending the holidays elsewhere.

  His voice came to her again, just as gently. “But you expected that. She had to go sometime. And she was in a lot of pain. Now she’s in a better place. She no longer has to suffer.”

  She wondered if he really believed that, about Anita and his own mother. Was there a better place? And were both mothers in it? Anita
had always eschewed religion, insisted it was man’s way of trying to exert control over the lives of others.

  Cheyenne, however, had often attended church with the Harmons. She liked the structure it provided, the peace and tranquility. So as terrible as she knew she was for even thinking it, she couldn’t imagine there were heavenly choirs of angels waiting to welcome Anita into heaven. Anita would rob them all blind if they didn’t watch themselves.

  “Do you hear me?” he said when she didn’t react. “Do you want me to call the hospice nurse or…or her doctor or someone?”

  Finally, she focused. “No.”

  “Why not? Would you like some more time with her? You can have a few minutes to say your final goodbyes, if you want.”

  She was surprised he’d said that. He knew how strained her relationship with Anita had been. Actually, maybe that was why he’d suggested it. Perhaps he understood that the strain also made this situation much more complicated. “That’s not it.” Her voice sounded rusty, as if she hadn’t used it in a long while. She almost didn’t recognize it.

  “Then what is?” His eyebrows rumpled as he awaited her answer.

  She started rocking back and forth. “I have to decide.”

  “On…”

  “What I should do.”

  Putting his arms around her, he spoke into her hair. “You should contact the hospice nurse or the doctor, like I said. Or maybe the coroner.”

  “No.” She pressed her face into his shoulder.

  “Why?” he prompted, pulling back to see her face.

  “We can’t call anyone,” she said. “Not yet. I have to think it through.”

  “Think what through? You told me she’s dead, Chey.”

  Her eyes latched on to his. “But it looks like P-Presley killed her!”

  21

  Dylan stepped inside Anita’s bedroom and turned on the light. He guessed Cheyenne had turned it off to hide what she’d found or as a subconscious way of blocking out reality.

  The stench made him grimace. It smelled like Anita’s bowels had emptied on her death. But that wasn’t what concerned him. The lamp that had been knocked off the nightstand suggested a struggle of some sort. So did the unnatural position of Anita’s body. And there was blood on her face from her nose, as well as blood on the pillow lying next to her.

  He heard Cheyenne come up behind him. “What do you think?” she whispered.

  He thought what she did, but he didn’t want to say so. “Have you tried to reach Presley?”

  “Several times. Before I called you. She’s not answering.”

  “What was going through her head?” he murmured as his eyes once again circled the room.

  “I don’t know. She could’ve been high, not in her right mind. Sometimes they fought. An argument could’ve triggered it. Or maybe it wasn’t like that at all. Maybe Presley was just tired of seeing her suffer.”

  “But chances are good she’ll be prosecuted for murder. Mercy killing is still considered killing. They could decide to make an example out of her. If we call the police…who knows what might happen.”

  “She needs rehab, not prison.”

  Unable to tolerate the sights and smells any longer, he stepped out in the hall and called Aaron on his cell.

  Aaron sounded sleepy when he answered. “What the hell, Dylan? Why are you waking me up? It isn’t time for work. It’s…shit, it’s the middle of the night!”

  Dylan didn’t apologize. He was too focused, too affected by what had happened. “Cheyenne’s looking for her sister. You haven’t seen or heard from Presley, have you?”

  “You mean the Cheyenne who’s now going out with Joe?”

  Although Dylan felt his jaw tighten, he ignored the jab. This had nothing to do with who was seeing whom. It was tragic and serious and no one deserved to face such circumstances alone. “Just answer the question.”

  “We talked briefly earlier.” His contrite tone implied that he knew he’d gone too far with the Joe comment and, possibly, regretted it. “Got into a fight on the phone,” he added. “Haven’t heard from her since.”

  So it had been a bad night for both of them. “What was the fight about?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “I don’t give a shit. That’s none of your business.”

  Dylan wrestled with his temper. No one could get him angry faster than Aaron with his damn belligerence. “Aaron—”

  “What?” he cried. “Don’t talk to me like you’re Dad, because you’re not. There’re only three years between us.”

  “Then when are you going to start acting your age?” he snapped. “When are you going to start taking life seriously?”

  Silence. Then, “If this is why you called, I’m hanging up.”

  “Don’t.”

  More silence. But at least there wasn’t a click. Aaron knew Dylan wouldn’t put up with too much disrespect, not after everything he’d done for the family.

  Dragging a hand through his hair, Dylan tried to set aside their personal differences. “Listen, I don’t want our shit to get in the way of this. We can fight any day. Right now we have to find Presley. And you might know something that’ll help.”

  Aaron didn’t respond immediately but eventually Dylan heard his brother draw an audible breath. “She wanted me to come over. She was having a hard time being alone with her mother. She said Anita was making gurgling sounds. It was freaking her out.”

  Dylan winced at the mental picture. “And?”

  “And I wouldn’t. Why the hell would I want to listen to that?”

  There was more anger and belligerence in these words, but Dylan knew it stemmed from the guilt he felt for not being able to support her. Aaron could act like a jerk, but he wasn’t as bad as he made himself sound. He couldn’t face what Presley had asked him to do. Aaron had been the one to find their own mother when she took her life. Since then he’d refused to go anywhere near death. Wouldn’t walk into a cemetery. Wouldn’t attend a funeral.

  “So…what? She hung up?”

  “Yeah. I got a dial tone. Never called her back.” He hesitated as if wrestling with his conscience. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Then why the big alarm?”

  “Her mother’s dead.”

  “It’s about damn time.”

  Dylan’s hand tightened on his phone. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “What else am I supposed to say? The woman had terminal cancer.”

  “You could show a little empathy, for Chrissake!”

  “You’d rather she continued to suffer?”

  “Quit twisting my words.”

  “There’s a lot more that’s twisted here than just your words. But maybe I’m the only one who can see it. Anyway, you’re right. I don’t care,” he said coldly. “I quit caring about anything years ago, and I’m damn glad.”

  With that, he hung up.

  “What’d he say?”

  This time, Dylan hadn’t heard Cheyenne’s approach. He stretched his neck, trying to cope with his own emotions. “Basically, he said he needs some serious help, more than I’ve ever been able to get him.”

  “In what way?”

  Cheyenne’s burdens were heavy enough. Doing what he could to control the disappointment and worry he so often felt when it came to Aaron, he put more energy into his voice. “In the same way your sister needs help. They’re angry and striking out at the world, and the world’s just going to strike back.”

  “Is there no helping them?” she whispered.

  “Not until they decide to help themselves.” That reality, that lack of power, nearly drove him mad.

  She wrung her hands. “What did he say about Presley?”

  “Not much. She called earlier, wanting him to come over, but…” Dylan couldn’t bring himself to repeat what his brother had said. He couldn’t present Aaron in such a poor light; he knew that no one else would understand w
hy he’d reacted the way he had. “It was late, and he was already in bed.”

  “Does he have any idea where we can look?”

  Dylan thought he could guess. “She likes Sexy Sadie’s.” He shot her a look. “She also goes to Carl Inera’s a lot.”

  “To buy drugs.”

  He nodded.

  She rubbed her face as if she was so tired she could hardly think. Then she seemed to gather her energy because she headed into the living room. “I’ll go there.”

  He hurried after her. “No. You stay here.”

  Her gaze darted toward the bedroom where her mother lay dead. “I don’t want to.”

  “I don’t blame you. But Presley might return. We wouldn’t want to miss her. I’m not sure she’s in a state to handle what needs to be done now that your mother’s passed.”

  Although she blinked rapidly, he saw no tears. “Okay.”

  “I’ll find Presley and bring her home,” he said. “Then we can hear what happened and decide what to do.”

  “So I wait here.”

  “That’s it. That’s all you can do.”

  When he stepped outside, soft flakes of snow fell to the earth. With no wind to buffet them, they lighted gently on his face and coat. A few got caught in his lashes. It didn’t snow that often in Whiskey Creek, so it always felt remarkable when it did. He stared up at the sky. “It’s snowing,” he murmured.

  Cheyenne didn’t sound pleased when she responded. “Figures.”

  * * *

  As soon as Dylan left, the house fell silent. Cheyenne stood at the window, watching his glowing tail lights as he drove toward Carl’s. Then there was nothing to see but the black night with the white flakes drifting peacefully to earth.

  She rubbed her arms, trying to compensate for the terrible chill that had invaded the house. She’d never felt so alone. Or maybe she had. When she was ten, her mother had left her on the corner of a busy street, holding a sign that said Hungry. Mom Out of Work. Although she was standing in an area teeming with people—it had been at the biggest mall in Walnut Creek—she’d never felt so isolated. She’d nearly jumped out of her skin when a man grabbed her wrist to put a few quarters in her palm. And she’d been utterly humiliated by the narrow glances of the less compassionate.